


Until the Gods and Demons Drop Asleep

by ThinkButThis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:07:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThinkButThis/pseuds/ThinkButThis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson's family has a dark secret. 400 years ago they tricked a warlock into service to them. Now, John's found himself in possession of said warlock and he begins to see that the crime around London isn't just another game of Cluedo.There's something darker at work here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. For All Men Flee the Demons

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: First Sherlock fanfic, it's been like six years since I've written anything of this nature and also I'm American.
> 
> Title, Chapter Title and opening quote are all from W.B. Yeats' The Wanderings of Oisin.
> 
> Depiction of Warlocks and potential half-angels are based loosely on The Mortal Instruments series.
> 
> I posted this prompt on the kink meme but couldn't get the idea out of my head. Also, I'm impatient.

_"And I must needs endure and hate and weep,_  
 _Until the gods and demons drop asleep."  
_ _~ W.B. Yeats (The Wanderings of Oisin)_

 

John Watson had seen the mysterious man in his father's study exactly three times in his life. The first time, he had been five and had wandered through a strange door that has been accidentally left partially cracked. He remembers hearing a voice that didn't belong to anyone his young mind knew say "You do not want to be caught in here, young Master." There is a man sitting near the fireplace and he starts to get up to escort the boy out but is interrupted by John's parents barging in. His mother keeps asking him if he is alright and she picks him up and nearly runs out of the room. His father slams the door behind her, locking him and the mysterious man in the room.

The second time he sees the man in the study, he had been 13 and had gotten in a fight at school. He had a black eye but was no worse for wear. The other boy ended up with a broken collarbone and John's parents had to come get him early that day. His mother angrily pointed at his Father's door and told John that he was expected. He remembers feeling more afraid about opening that door than he had been any other time during his life. When he entered the room, his father pointed to a hard, wooden chair in front of the desk and told him to sit. When he did so, he noticed the Mysterious Man sitting on the floor by his father's chair, his head against the armrest. The man had his eyes closed and did not notice that the entire time John's father berated him, the young boy stared at him. His father dismissed him but he could not take his mind off the man on the floor. He asked his father that night at dinner but was told to forget it for now because it was something that he would learn about when he was older.

The last time he catches a glimpse of the mystery man, he is 18 and just about to leave for Afghanistan. He goes into the study to say his good-byes. His father shakes his head, wishes him well and he notices, as he leaves, that the strange man is watching him. He doesn't have much time to dwell on it as his mother whisks him out the door.  
\---  
While on his second tour, he gets word from his sister that his father had been in a car accident and passed away a few nights later. It was only a few weeks after that his mother committed suicide, unable to cope with the grief. John felt his whole world crumble. His sister was struggling to deal with the affairs and keep everything together but he could tell from her letters that she had started drinking again. That was how Harry dealt with her pain. John dealt with his by volunteering for anything and everything that came his way. He tried to keep himself busy, not caring if he lived or died, as long as he didn't have to think about everything that was on his mind. He ended up being shot by a sniper and invalided home, losing the only good thing he had going in his life.

He returned to England, spent a few weeks in an army hospital, and then decided he wasn't going home. He was going to move to London and start over. It didn't take him long to find a nice place on Baker Street, a bit big for one person, but the Land Lady was a nice old, lady who felt sorry for the young army veteran with the limp and was cutting him a deal. He had some money that had been left to him after his father's death and he used it to furnish the place and keep himself afloat until he could get back on his feet. It was tough for someone recently back from the war to find a job, let alone one with a disability.

A week after he moved in, Harry sent him an email. She had something that been left to him by his father and it would be there in the morning, He needed to read the letter it came with immediately. He honestly had no idea what to expect. No personal items that his father had told him he wanted him to have, no heirlooms that were ever spoken of. He made himself a cup of tea and sat down to read the e-mail again, hoping to garnish more insight. Finally, he had to give up. The postman would bring it to him tomorrow and the mystery would be solved.  
\---  
He hung around the flat the next day, occasionally peeking out the window, sometimes trying to write updates on the blog the therapist wanted him to keep, but always impatiently waiting for his package. Sometime after noon, a knock on the door downstairs caught his ear. He knew Mrs. Hudson was out for the day so he hobbled down the stairs to see who it was.

He opened to door and was stunned to see the man he remembered so vividly from his childhood. Now though, he didn't feel like he would get in trouble if he looked closely at him. He was taller than John was, paler too, with dark brown curls and blue eyes. He was dressed simply, with a purple dress shirt and plain black trousers, but he still managed to make it look completely elegant. There was a black collar around his neck, a barely visible pattern stamped on the leather and all the accents in silver. John was no expert on antiques but he could tell that it was old. The man said nothing but handed John a letter before he could open his mouth. He remembered Harry's insistence that he open it first thing, so he tore it from the envelope and began to read.

_Son,  
I wanted to sit down and have this talk with you - to answer all your questions in person but should this letter reach you than that is not possible. Currently, you've just left for your first tour and while I intended to speak with you before you left, I did not want to worry your mind with what I am about to say._

_If all goes as it should, standing in front of you should be the man you asked me about at dinner when you were 13. You had just come home with a black eye that you had gotten standing up for another kid when he had been bullied. I was so proud of you but still knew that we needed to have a talk about how to properly handle a situation like that. As you sat in that chair in front of me, I noticed your attention was not of me but I didn't really bother to push it. I wasn't ever truly angry at you, though it must have sounded like I was scolding you. That night you asked me who had been sitting by my chair and I told you that it wasn't a concern now because you would learn when you were older._

_You weren't ready then but, sadly, you have to be now. The man you see is called Lock. He has been with the family for nearly four hundred years, his loyalties passed down from father to son. After my father died, he served me, as he shall now serve you._

_While he looks human, he most certainly is not. He is a Warlock, which makes him half demon. In the book he should give you, your great, great, great grandfather says that he comes from powerful demon lines. I never looked into it myself. I know you are probably sitting there shaking your head, thinking that I've gone crazy with the talk of demons and all but before you make judgments or jump to conclusions, ask him for a demonstration or two. He will be more than happy to give them._

_I am sorry I could not teach you more myself as I can't imagine learning all of what you will need to know in this situation will be easy. However, the book should provide almost all of the answers you will need, since it has been kept by your ancestors since the beginning of his contract. You are a smart boy, I am sure you will figure out the rest on your own._

_I can only offer you one last word of advice - he may look fragile and tame but appearances can be deceiving. He is a demon, he is dangerous and he is most certainly not to be trusted._

_I wish you luck in your future and I am most certainly proud of you._   
_~Dad_

John read the letter twice, unable to stop thinking that yes, his father had gone batty. He glanced at the man in front of him, noticing that he hadn't moved but was watching him with great interest. Half demon… he found that hard to believe. He looked human, though… he certainly didn't look anywhere close to 400 years old. John closed his eyes and rubbed his temples for a moment, still trying to take everything in. His father had said to ask for a demonstration…

"So uh," He started awkwardly. What exactly was he supposed to say? 'Show me your powers?' No, he wasn't some comic book character. "Dad said that you could provide...evidence that what he says in this letter is true." The man, Lock as his name turned out to be, said nothing but nodded his head, took a step back and held out his hand. For a moment a blue flame hovered over it before he extinguished it. John stared at him, unblinking. Did he summon fire? Or was it a trick - he'd seen some good street magicians in his travels - maybe he was one of them. Certainly, a little fire in the hand was easy enough to fake.

"Okay, sorry. While that was...impressive, I can't actually convince myself that you're a…"He lowered his voice, even though there wasn't anyone around to hear him, "a demon." He bet this was all one cruel joke. This man was probably just a coworker of his dad's and Harry had convinced him to help her prank John. It was a cruel joke, but Harry had a sick sense of humor, especially when drunk. Lock rolled his eyes and thrust his hand on in the air next to him. He furrowed his brow, concentrated and John watched as a blue vortex began to form in the air. "You have got to be kidding me…" The warlock stepped through it and vanished and John waited anxiously for him to reappear. He heard a pop and an unexpected tap on his shoulder from inside the empty house sent his brain into combat ready mode. Without thinking, he swung a punch that was only narrowly missed by the intruder.

It was the curly haired stranger, another blue portal behind him, holding his arms out in a 'Well, are you convinced now?' gesture. John swore and shut the door quickly behind him, peeking through the peep hole after a moment to see if anyone on the street had noticed anything. Nothing - people went about their lives like a man hadn't just disappeared only to reappear a few feet later. John gave a sigh of relief. Alright, so it was easy enough to convince him. He'd watched enough magicians debunked on telly to know that something like that would have taken some serious prep, and honestly he didn't think Harry was quite a mastermind.

"I guess…" Well, what now? That was the question. What was he supposed to do with him? His father had said service but what kind of service? Was he like a butler? Or were they supposed to go gallivanting around the country slaying evil? He didn't particularly want or need a butler but at the same time, he was definitely in no physical shape to go chasing evil. "Come upstairs then. No use hovering around in the lobby, trying to work things out." He made his way up the stairs a bit painfully, Lock following him closely and a bit hesitantly.

When they got to the flat, he waved the man in and set the letter on the table, only now noticing that he held a book. "Da said you'd have a book...can I see that?" He asked, the warlock nodding and handing it over to him, looking curiously around the flat. "Have a seat, I'll make some tea...then we can talk about this whole thing I guess."

He set about the kitchen, fixing his tea but his mind was distracted. So much had just happened and it was a lot to process. There were demons in the world, okay, it was a bit Tolkien perhaps but he could live with it. The man he grew up wondering about was a half demon, a warlock, whose purpose it was to serve his family and while he looked a few years younger than John was now, he was somehow over 400 years old. Again, very science fiction but stranger things had happened in the world he supposed. The tea finished and he carried the two cups into the living room, the book tucked snugly under his arm.

Lock had taken up a seat on the floor at the end of the couch and John raised an eyebrow. Strange, though maybe it was his preference. Every time he can remember seeing him, he was on the floor. Maybe it was more comfortable than the couch or the chair. "Here." He said, handing him a cup. The warlock looked at it for a moment, then back at John. "Drink," he insisted, "I promised I haven't poisoned it. Might be a bit strong but it's still good tea." Lock tentatively took a sip and nodded in thanks.

"So, I guess...tell me about yourself." John said after a minute of sitting in silence. Lock looked at him with a quizzical expression, almost as if he didn't understand, but John knew he did. He'd met his requests downstairs and understood what John had said when they got to the flat. Even though he had a previous memory of this man talking to him, he had been very young and it's possible that he had made it up. Maybe he was a mute. After a moment of John running it over in his head, Lock shook his head in frustration and pointed to the book in his hand. It didn't take a genius to figure this one out.

"It'll take all night for me to get through this if it's as old as I have a feeling it is…" He said out loud, briefly flipping through what he assumed was 400 years of notes. At the very end of the book, something caught his eye. That handwriting he recognized. He got up quickly, ignoring the fact that his cane had dropped to the floor and grabbed the letter off the table. It matched… his father's note. The last entry in the book had definitely been written by him.

Lock was forgotten as he read the last few pages of the book. It was mostly meaningless to him, at least until he read what his grandfather and great grandfather and so forth wrote. On the last page, near the top, he found what he was looking for:

_John (5) found his way into my study today. Lock spoke to him and was moving towards him when we found him. Warlock has been ordered not to speak unless ordered to do so. I don't want to put John in any more danger. It worries me enough having both under the same roof._

So it had been fear he had seen in his father's eyes that day, not anger...and he wasn't crazy, and Lock wasn't mute. Well… he shut the book and looked at the man, who just raised a questioning eyebrow in return as if to say 'find what you were looking for?' "So how does this work then?" John asked after a moment. "I give you an order and you have to obey it?" He received a gesture that he interpreted to mean more-or-less. "Is it by choice or some sort of… demon magic?" Another sign, #2 then. No, 2...ish. Like that made sense.

"So… I order you to speak to me." Nope, nothing. Lock looked at him with a 'That was a stupidly pathetic attempt' expression and John gave a frustrated sigh. "Look, the sarcasm isn't appreciated. You've just turned up on my doorstep, all I've got as a manual as to what the hell is going on or how this whole thing works is an ancient book and a letter from my dad saying 'here, he's yours now.' What the heck am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to say? 'As your master, I order you to forget your previous command of silence and obey the new one to speak.'" John mocked as he got more frustrated.

"Something like that, yes, but that will do."


	2. If You Don't Mind a Touch of Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and his new Warlock get acquainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, same warning as the last chapter. I'm out of practice, American and my first Sherlock fanfiction. Warlocks are based off the ones in The Mortal Instruments books.
> 
> Yes, there is a reason why John's great-great however many greats grandfather is named John H. Watson as well. 
> 
> Don't worry, you'll see.

**Chapter Two: If You Don't Mind a Touch of Hell**

 

_"The world is a beautiful place_

_to be born into_

_if you don't mind happiness_

_not always being_

_so very much fun_

_if you don't mind a touch of hell_

_now and then_

_just when everything is fine_

_because even in heaven_

_they don't sing_

_all the time"_

_~The World is a Beautiful Place by Lawrence Ferlinghetti_

 

\-------

 

_John Henry Watson - April 17th, 1611._

_I am beginning this diary to record accounts which seem strange to those without the knowledge. There are few in London these days who know. It's easy to see if you know what you are looking for but these people seem so blind._

_There are creatures who walk God's Earth with us - good ones and bad ones, Angels and Demons and their offspring. They try so very hard to blend in, to be human, but there is always something off. Maybe their eyes aren't right, maybe the way they carry themselves suggest that they have wings that they are concealing with magic, maybe it's the way they talk to humans like their nothing more than dirt under their boot. It's different with each and every one and it takes some skill to learn how to look past what you see with your eyes and see with your heart. Most people don't notice it - they think everyone is equal and nothing or no one is out of the ordinary. But I know - I can see._

_I have had the ability to see these creatures since a young age - an unfortunate near drowning when I was a child left me with the ability to see things as they truly are. At first, it was believed that I was going mad. Eventually, I learned to keep what I could see to myself and my life went on. Seeing wings and horns and tails on people had become part of a daily routine. I had begun to even think it normal._

_One day I returned home to find my house burning to the ground, my wife and child inside, likely already dead. Blind and mad in grief and terror, I rushed to the door only to have my way blocked my a strange walking stick. I looked to my right to see a man pale in complexion, with short, brown hair. Against the fire light, I could see the tips of his ears were pointed.He was dressed as a nobleman was expected to and had obviously come from a family with wealth. I had never seen him before and assumed he was not a local. I tried to push the stick he blocked me with out of the way and run into the house at one last attempt to rescue those inside._

_"Peace, John Watson. Your family is safe. You and I, however, need to have a talk. I have a proposition for you, and  need of your ability."_

_My shock must have been apparent for he continued talking to me, slowing turning towards me, allowing a glimpse of his eyes. It only surprised me a little to find they were a pure, soulless black. "You can see us for how we are. My kind, the demons, perhaps even the angels...There is a war going on, not on this world but on the one below. Hell has dropped into complete chaos, and, unfortunately, we are beginning to see the threads of that up here."_

_He gestured to my house, as it continued to burn. He was truly a frightening individual, even if he appeared not to be. I had no doubt that even if he were fully human, he would still be terrifying._

_"And what is it that you want from me?" I asked, finally able to find my voice, as meek as it was at this point in time._

_"The war, John Watson. Your house fire was caused by a demon, the recent string of deaths was caused by another. I quite like this place,  and I do not wish to see it destroyed. All I ask if that you use your ability to see the true nature in the world around you to assist me in taking care of these little problems before they turn into larger ones. You are, after all, a soldier. Fighting is in your blood."_

_I do not know what it is that I was expecting him to say but those words were certainly not it. I turned the suggestion over in my mind for a few moments before I finally found the ability to speak. "Why would I risk my life for this? Against a demon, even the best soldier is merely an instinct under a boot."_

_It was now ever apparent that the man who stood next to me was a warlock - a bastard child created between a human and a demon. His love for the world was far too great and even as inhuman as he seemed, he was still far too natural to be fully a product of the Underworld. "Ah, yes. There is the matter of that. In exchange for your service, and the continued service of your family until the war is over, I will gift you with my brother's service. He is still young, at 360 years, but he comes from the same blood stock as I - both human and...otherwise. He does so need a job, without one he can become a nuisance."_

_"It sounds like you have a problem that you can not deal with that you are  just passing on to me."_

_"It would seem like that, yes. However the deal that I am suggesting would give you power over him once the contract is signed. If you give him an order, he will have to obey, whereas if I ask him for a favor, I get ignored. He does not have to listen to me, but he will have to listen to you. He should be more than enough help against the scum you will encounter. Think of the task as...protection and insurance."_

_The fire around my house was still raging, and I watched it burn as I considered the offer. A warlock under my command, in exchange for using some of my time tracking down, and taking care of, the rampant demons. Protection for my family and insurance that our blood would continue, for nothing more than a regular hunting trip. My mind was made up but it took me a few minutes before I could muster the courage to speak._

_"Under the condition that your brother be able to tell me more about the creatures we will encounter, I accept." The words felt hot on my tongue and even without looking at him, I could feel the man's smile._

_"Good, I was hoping we could reach an agreement." He pulled a scroll out from his sleeve and passed it to me. "You can read more about the terms of the contract, or just take my word and sign it. Of course, these kind of things do need to be done in something more than ink. You have a knife on your belt, that should do wonderfully."_

_I used the small knife to prick my thumb and hastily signed the bottom with a X made out of the blood coming from my finger. "Thank you, John Watson. I'm sure my brother will be of assistance, provided you remember to give him direct orders as he will be unable to ignore them thanks to this. Your family is at the inn in town, taken there by one of my men. You are lucky we got here when we did - I do so hate getting my hands dirty but sometimes it cannot be avoided. I will have a new home built for you as you will be needing one. No, no. No reason to thank me - it's simply my duty. My brother should be at your doorstep in the morning, in one form or another and I will check in with you from time to time. It was a pleasure doing business with you."_

_I took the opportunity to glance once more at once had been my home before turning back to offer last words to the warlock. It did not surprise me to find that once I looked back, he was already gone._

 ------

John glanced up from his reading to look at the man in front of him once more. Demon, well...half demon who had, apparently, been sold into some sort of service by an older brother. From the entry it didn't sound like he had had any say in the matter and, demon or not, the Doctor couldn't imagine anyone doing that to their sibling. As much as he and Harry didn't get along, he was sure that she would certainly never do that to him. He couldn't imagine what it was like waking up one day and knowing that you're life was no longer yours. He sighed and glanced back at the book in his hands.

This John Watson from 400 years ago had said that he was able to see horns and tails on people, signs that they were demon. Yet, here was Lock in front of him, showing no signs of any of that. He didn't particularly act like he was lugging around wings, his eyes were  normal coloured. He looked totally human, albeit a bit pale and thin for what John's medical training was telling him that the man should be.

"That's because you're using your eyes to look, typical. Dull. You won't see anything if your using your eyes. You have to use your brain." Lock was still resting with his back against the couch, though his tea had been finished and put off to the side. His fingers were steepled under his chin and his eyes were closed. The man made no move to show that he acknowledged John in any way and if the doctor hadn't just heard him speak, he would have guessed that the warlock was lost somewhere in his own mind.

He wasn't sure how to reply but he was about to open his mouth to attempt something when his stomach gave a very loud, audible growl. Tea was filling but it wasn't food. He hadn't eaten a damn thing yet today and he was showing it now. He saw Lock's eyebrow perk at the sound though his eyes didn't open and he didn't make a move. John swore under his breath and got out of his chair to see what he had to eat in the kitchen. As he was scrambling through the fridge looking for something still remotely edible, he cast a glance back to the man on the floor.

He was in his care now, like… John hesitated, realizing for the first time what that meant. He was expected to take care of this man - feed him, clothe him, house him. Oh God, he thought as the reality of the situation dawned on him. This man was essentially his dog. He'd say child but you don't typically put a collar and a tag on a child. In fact, he was pretty sure that it was frowned upon in general society. And yet here he was, in complete ownership of another life and not thinking too much about it. That wasn't like him. Not at all.

Another sound from his stomach brought him out from his internal monologue. His search had turned up nothing edible in the fridge, which meant they'd have to go out to eat. "Are you hungry?" John asked, moving towards the chair to grab his coat and cane. Lock gave a dismissive wave and John sighed. He barely knew this man and he was already getting frustrated with him.

"Well," He said after a moment, trying to decide what the next plan of action was. "I'm hungry, and I'd really like to go get Chinese. You look like you need to eat. If you've been with Harry, chances are you haven't eaten anything in a while." Still no movement from the warlock, so John tried a different tactic. "We're going out. Get up and get moving. Now."

Instantly Lock's eyes snapped open and he pushed himself off the floor and made his way towards John, glaring daggers at him the entire time. "The body is merely transport," he muttered, wanting to get a word in but still unsure of his new 'master' and how he needed to act around him. From their brief time together, he could tell that John was indeed nothing like his father - he had stronger morals, a better sense of purpose and cared deeply for those around him. It had been many, many years since any of those who commanded him had any of these traits, let alone all three.

"It may be transport, but even cars need petrol." John responded, opening the door and waving him out. "Let's go." The Doctor grabbed his cane and started down the stairs, the warlock following behind him obediently. "Wait," he said, hesitating by the door and grabbing a blue scarf off the coat rack. He'd gotten it as a birthday gift from Harry a few months ago. He'd worn it once to show his appreciation but he wasn't really a scarf guy. It would go to better use this way. "Put this on. We don't need to be drawing any unnecessary attention with…" He paused, ashamed to say what he was point out. "that. We'll have to get you a coat too. Last thing I need is you freezing. We'll do that after dinner. The restaurant is right around the corner."

\----

When they got to the restaurant, John had ordered for both of them. He'd asked Lock what he liked but the man didn't have a clue - it wasn't his place to like. He ate what was given to him. His stomach had grown unaccustomed to such a heavy meal and he often went days without eating. He was used to it by now and he wasn't sure he'd be able to stomach all this food. When they reached the table, he hesitated. He'd never been out to a restaurant with any of his previous masters. He was under the order to stay off the furniture and stay to the floor. He looked from the chair to the floor by John and then glanced around the restaurant. It would look strange if he sat on the floor and ate but then again… an order was an order.

He moved around the table to take a seat next to John and heard the man huff. "Oh for God's sake, sit in the damn chair. Your causing a scene." He wasn't sure whether or not the doctor intended it to be an order, but it was. He was grateful - maybe this go round he'd at least get to keep some of his dignity.

They ate in silence. After what seemed like eternity (even to an immortal,) John cleared his throat. "So… Lock. Do you have a name? I assume Lock is short for what you are… warlock." He didn't bother speaking in a whisper. The restaurant was loud and anyone listening would pass the conversation off as crazy. No one would take anything they heard as serious.

The curly haired man smirked, biting down every urge to throw out a snide comment. No, that would have to wait until he knew this master better. Over the years he'd served the Watsons, he'd been beaten, starved, tortured, treated like an animal, a tool, a toy… he had learned to play it safe. His powers of deduction aside, he was past the point of taking chances unnecessarily. "You're the first to ask," He mumbled after a moment. "I haven't had a name in 400 years."

He pushed the rice around on his place, purposefully avoiding the gaze of Doctor Watson. He knew the man wanted an actual answer. After a moment, he sighed and raised his eyes. "My name was Sherlock Holmes."


	3. Let Us Go Then, You and I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting and some answers....but not enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I don't own Sherlock nor do I own the poem I quoted. Warlocks are based off their portrayal in The Mortal Instruments.
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry this is taking so long - I promise we'll see some action next chapter. I also apologize for the brevity in this chapter. There may come some edits to length later.

**Chapter 3: Let Us Go Then, You and I**

 

_"Let us go then, you and I,_

_When the evening is spread out against the sky_

_Like a patient etherized upon a table;_

_Let us go, through half-deserted streets,_

_The muttering retreats_

_Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels_

_And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:_

_Streets that follow like a tedious argument_

_Of insidious intent_

_To lead you to an overwhelming question . . ._

_Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"_

_Let us go and make our visit."_

_~T.S. Elliot "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."_

 

 

 

There was small talk throughout the rest of dinner though most of the talking was done by John. Lock - though he now knew him to be called Sherlock -barely spoke a word and gave brief answers when he chose to at all. John didn't quite think it was his personality, judging by what had been written by his long dead ancestor and the brief glimpses of an attitude from the curly haired man that he had seen back in the flat. John sighed, dropping his fork on his plate and leaning back in his chair.

"Look, mate. I know you don't believe me but when I say I'm different than the others. I haven't read much of that journal yet, not enough to know what they did to you but I know how my father was. I can remember seeing you a few times growing up. I know you were there. And I know how he treated Harry and I when he was drunk so I can't imagine what he would do to something that he considered…" John paused, trying to find the right word, "property. You don't seem like the type to trust easily and I can understand that but you've got to at least give me a chance. I don't want to use you or hurt you, hell, if I didn't have a bum leg, I would be game for hunting down the nasties that you and my relatives were apparently supposed to take care of. I don't know what it means for us, I don't, but I'd like to at the very least be friends so please, don't worry about what's proper or upsetting me - just be yourself."

Sherlock didn't raise his eyes. He wanted to trust him, he really did, but he had been through a lot in 400 years. Granted, he had never been one to mingle with the stupidity of the human race but under service to the Watsons, he'd learned that there was another trait humans possessed - cruelty. He had helped them fight the demons coming in from the Underworld like he had been ordered to do and in return he had gotten treated like a weapon, sometimes a pet, but never like the intelligent, powerful and nearly immortal creature that he was.

It hadn't been too terrible, in the beginning. Of course, there'd been hate and attitude from him since he had been forced, by his meddling brother's hand of course, into the role. Sherlock always had liked the action, the thrill of the chase, so to speak. He didn't mind that he had a job to do - one that he actually enjoyed for a change, rather than playing pomp and circumstance like the rest of his family. He did, however, loathe the orders. He worked in a very different way, one that most normal individuals couldn't seem to understand and had, rather quickly, come to hate. They'd given him very specific orders to keep him behaved. Eventually, he'd lost even the ability to enjoy the work he was sent to do and the only thing that had kept him safe had been to retreat to his mind palace and hope that something, some day might kill him and break the stupid contract.

He realized that he must have been lost in his thoughts longer than he had previously believed when he heard John clear his throat. "Well, we ought to get going before they kick us out for loitering. Mind you, I know a cop or two, but I'd rather not run into them outside of the pub." He stood up and pulled his coat back on, taking a few seconds to get it to lie properly before grabbing his cane and starting towards the door. "Come on." It was an order, a weak one, he probably didn't even notice he was doing it. Regardless, an order was an order and Sherlock had to obey.

He followed his Master out onto the road, having to shorten his stride to keep close to the limping man. "Your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic. Quite right, I'm afraid."

John stopped mid-stride, nearly causing the man behind him to run him over. "Pardon?" He asked quickly. He was expecting something out of Sherlock's mouth at some point during the evening but it certainly wasn't a comment on his health.

"You're limp. It's psychosomatic."

"How did you know I had a therapist?" As far as he knew, it wasn't exactly public information. It was mandatory after his return but it wasn't something he chose to share. Sure, there was no shame in going but in normal conversation, he didn't bring it up. He hadn't even told Harry that he was going so as far as he could guess, there should have been no way for Sherlock to know.

"With a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist." John realized that he was truly starting to see the warlock's personality. It'd been a few hours since they'd been together - with a few orders  (well, one in particular) to reverse another order and what John would like to think of as gesture of good faith (dinner) and a speech (albeit a short one,) Sherlock was already starting to loosen up.

"Fair enough. And the limp then? How do you know it's psychosomatic?" He continued to limp towards the shops at the end of the row, still with every intention of getting Sherlock some more clothes, but turned his full attention to the other man.

Sherlock sighed - sure, he liked proving how clever he was but this was uncharted territory with a new Master. He knew he should wait until the next few days played out, experience had taught him that, but sometimes he just couldn't help himself. "The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. You didn't limp when last we met, and I know for a fact you were wounded in action in Afghanistan, for someone so mortal, that was probably traumatic. War, bullet wound, near death experience - psychosomatic limp."

John opened his mouth to reply when a sleek black town car pulled up next to them. "Doctor Watson - good evening." He heard, turning his head to see who the speaker was. He noticed that Sherlock had completely stopped dead in his tracks and was scowling at the man in the car.

"Piss off, Mycroft." John had only a minute to glance at the man in the car - well-dressed,  obviously with some money if he was being chauffeured around, brunette, middle aged, before his attention snapped back to Sherlock.  That was rude and uncalled for - even if the man did have the makings of an evil villain in his own creepy way.

"Sherlock, hush." The doctor muttered under his breath, hoping it was only loud enough for him and the warlock to hear. The man in the car, Mycroft as it turned out, smiled and John felt the creepy levels rise at good 30%. He wasn't smiling in a kind way - he was smiling in a 'I'll be nice but tonight you're going to die' way.

"Yes, Sherlock. Listen to your master." John's eyes narrowed as the other man spoke. Warlock or not, Sherlock was still living, breathing and half human - he deserved to be treated like one, not like property. "And I see we're on a first name basis now. That's some improvement over the last few."

"How do you know who I am and what do you want? We've got errands to run and I'm not keen to stand out here freezing my arse off for your own amusement."

"All I want is a few minutes of your time - to answer any questions you may have about," he waved a hand vaguely in Sherlock's direction, eliciting  what sounded like a quiet growl from the man, "Tsk, you always were far too feisty for your own good, Sherlock. That's what got you into the predicament you are in now."

That is when John knew with full certainty who the man in the car was. This was the man that had sold his brother into virtual slavery so he didn't have to dirty his hands cleaning up England. The doctor knew for sure now that he didn't want anything further to do with the man and a quick glance behind him confirmed that Sherlock didn't either. Mycroft must have read his reaction in his face because his fake smile faded. "Unfortunately, Dr. Watson, this is not up for negotiation. You will get in this car and we will have a chat but it is up to you whether or not we do it the easy way. I told you that no harm would come to you and I do mean it."

"He's not lying," Sherlock mumbled, a better grip on the situation than the slightly confused John. "He can't lie, neither can I...part of our make up, but take that for what it's worth. He works for the government."

"For goodness sake! I occupy a minor position in the British Government."

"He IS the British Government - when he's not too busy being the Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis."

The brothers had a stare down before the elder Holmes' head snapped back to John. "Please get in the car, Dr. Watson. I don't want to make this difficult." It was only a few moments before the doctor, against his better judgment, found himself sliding in the backseat of the vehicle. Sherlock made a move to follow him but the door was slammed shut before he had a chance. "No, stay, brother dear, I won't occupy your master for long. I even brought you a peace offering, I know how you tend to run cold - so very much like mummy."

The chauffeur stepped out of the car and held out a long, black coat. Sherlock was loathe to accept any kind of aid from his brother, he did have to admit that he was freezing. He knew that Mycroft's estimation that their chat would take 15 minutes would be correct and in that case, he didn't want to be standing out in this thin shirt in the cold for that entire time. She shrugged the jacket on and noticed how John's expression had changed. Funny, he was always so good at reading people and he couldn't for the life of him figure out what was going on in the other man's head. He'd have to make a mental note to ask him later.

"Go," He spat, once he had adjusted the coat to his liking, "I would not like to be still standing here when the sun goes down and the temperature drops further."

"With pleasure, little brother." The driver got back in the car and it pulled away silently. Sherlock sighed and took a few steps back away from the road. He didn't trust London drivers. Granted, even if one did decide to hit him, more damage would probably be done to the car than him, but he didn't want to take any chances. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat, feeling a strange object block his way. He pulled the item out and managed a small smirk. His brother was doing more than trying to temporarily placate him while he chatted with John, it seemed. Cigarettes - God, it had been so long.

He leaned up against the wall and glanced around him to make sure the humans were too preoccupied with their mundane lives to notice what he was about to do. Thankfully, it seemed that the street was rather empty. He snapped his fingers, emitting a small, blue flame from between them, and lit up. Yes, he decided, he could wait the fifteen minutes like this.

 

\---

 

Mycroft said nothing to his passenger until they were a good couple of blocks away from Sherlock. "You have questions."

"Yeah, where are we going?"

"We have no destination. We are using the car as an office away from the prying ears of my brother and any others who would overhear."

"Right." They sat in silence for a few moments before John could form the words for his next question. "Why? Why me? Why my family?"

Mycroft glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. He had a look that John recognized - Sherlock had given him the same one a few times in their short acquaintance.  That was a look that very plainly said that what he had just asked was a stupid question. "Because your special. Your family is, at least. You have the ability to see through the glamor we throw up and because of it, you can take care of things we cannot. British government or not, I am unable to be everywhere at every moment and the war in hell rages on."

"But you're wrong. About me at least. I understand that the John Watson who signed the contract could see demons and what not but I can't. I'm just an average bloke with no special powers."

He felt Mycroft's eyes on him, studying every inch of him. "I see. Well, things do change, Doctor Watson, do not be surprised if you wake up tomorrow with newfound abilities. In the meantime, you do have Sherlock."

"Yes, why exactly did you sell your own brother into slavery? I mean, I can tell he's probably a bit of a prick but so is my sister and you don't see me going around trying to pawn her off on people."

"I had two problems and I dealt with them simultaneously. Sherlock needed constant supervision, which I did not have time to give. He was reckless and unaware of his own power. He started to go down a bad route and he needed something to keep him in line. The war was starting to spill over and the lower level demons were rampaging through the country, taking as they pleased and leaving a mess. Your great-great-great grandfather could see them but didn't know the proper way of handling them. So do you see? I had a warlock who needed a job and a babysitter and a human who needed protection and knowledge. It was a win-win situation."

John said nothing for a few moments. He had had a feeling this man was a heartless person and the words just out of his mouth confirmed it. He had no care for his brother, it seemed, nor did he have any for John's family or humans in general. He didn't want demons running about and mucking up his precious life. Well good for him, John wasn't sure if he wanted to be a pawn under this man's hand.

"And just what do you expect me to do? I don't remember my dad ever going to hunt demons. Granted, I kept out of the study and generally out of his way but I'm pretty sure I would at least have some part of a memory of that."

"Yes, your father and the two before him did let their side of the contract slip a little bit."

"And it didn't void the contract? You didn't think to go rescue your brother then? He's in a collar for God's sake. He can't do anything unless I give him an order!" John was yelling his voice and he noticed that the chauffeur glanced back to see if he needed to intervene. Mycroft gave a almost unnoticeable shake of his head and the man turned his eyes back to the road.

"John, please understand that 100 years is merely a blink in the life of a warlock. We do not age and we are nearly immortal. I knew that someone would come along to break the pattern and put things back to the way they should be. Sherlock still needed some discipline and I found myself far too busy to watch over  him. The war still rages on, if you hadn't noticed the ever-growing increase in crime, there is still a need for a warlock and a soldier to go hunting."

Every time Mycroft opened his mouth, John wanted to punch him in the face. He was so pompous, with very little, if any family values. John didn't have the best relationship with his family but he stuck with them and would be there in a heartbeat if they needed him because that's what family did. Mycroft didn't care about what happened to Sherlock, as long as his precious demons got beaten.

"Now, we don't have much time left so listen to me carefully. I have seen your service record and I know that you are more than capable of taking on most of the creatures you encounter and when you do meet up with some that trouble you, Sherlock will be able to take care of them. Try not to cause a scene or make a mess but if you do, the nature of incident will make its way to my desk and I will take care of it but I do not want to make habit of cleaning up after you." The car pulled back up to where it had picked John up and he glanced out the window to see Sherlock leaning against the wall, the coat wrapped against him for warmth, smoking a cigarette. "I trust Sherlock will explain the rest and I will have some...necessities dropped off for the both of you in the morning. I will be watching, Dr. Watson, do not think you can escape me eye."

John shot the man a glare and opened the door to get out. He turned around and noticed the way Mycroft was looking at him and felt the anger ripple through his chest. "What," He spat, wanting to get out of the car and be on his merry way.

"You don't seem very frightened."

"Yeah, well, you don't seem very frightening." With that, he slammed the door to the town car and stalked back to Sherlock. "Come on, we're going home." He knew it was an order, though he didn't intend it to be and felt Sherlock fall into place a few steps behind him. "Your brother is an arse, you know that?"

Sherlock snorted and flicked his cigarette butt into the street. "Yes, tell me something I don't know. I trust your talk with him went swimmingly?"

"No. Yes… Honestly I have no bloody idea. Everyone is expecting me to be like my great-great-whatever-great grandfather but I'm not. I'm not special. I'm just me, and I don't know how I can hunt demons wen I can't even see them. Tell me there have been others who were just stupidly normal?"

Sherlock thought about it for a moment, images of all of his masters and their quirks flashing quickly through his mind. "No but it will come to you. There are ways to make it happen. For instance…" He paused as John held up a hand to silence him.

"I don't want to hear it. I just want a nice cup of tea, some peace and quiet and maybe to read some more of that stupid book. Hopefully there are answers there."


	4. The Jabberwocky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes through...in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd or britpicked.

_'Beware the Jabberwock, my son!_

_The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!_

_Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun_

_The frumious Bandersnatch!'_

_~Lewis Carroll, The Jabberwocky_

\-----

_Running. He had to keep running. Bad things would happen if he stopped running. That monster, that creature behind him would catch up. He'd been running on and on and on for ages. The scenery never changed, he knew he wasn't actually getting anywhere. He shot a glance over his shoulder and saw the beast was gaining on him. Of course it was. That's what monsters do. Part of his mind thought that this must be a dream because things like this didn't happen in the real world. He should just stop and let it happen so he could be done with this. The rest of him just had to keep running. He had to try. Please God, let me live._

_Teeth, sharp snapping teeth. Maybe like a crocodile, maybe like a hyena. Claws that were long and could easily tear him apart. Bear? No. It was smaller than a bear? Or was it? It was certainly more graceful and limber but how big was it really? He didn't want to turn around and look. There was fur - it was long, black and matted. And there were scales. Scales? Fur and scales? Did it really matter that much?_

_He didn't trip. He didn't stop. He didn't run out of places to run. It wasn't like the movies at all. The creature simply overtook him and he was face down in the ground almost instantly. He felt a flash of blinding pain up his arm and he screamed. And then, just as quickly as the thing had started, it was over. He was left alone in the darkness and the monster had simply vanished._

\---- 

"John! John! Wake up!" Sherlock was standing over him, inches away from his face, his hands keeping his balance as he leaned in. The warlock looked worried or rather he sounded worried, John couldn't see. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his cloudy vision before bringing his hands up to rub his eyes and wincing as a pain shot through his arm. What had happened?

"John!" Sherlock saw the wince and his eyes scanned his Master's body looking for the cause. His eyes settled on his right arm and he learned forward to get a closer look. "May I?" he asked, needing permission from John before he touched him. Even now it seemed that old habits were hard to break. A nod from John was the best he was going to get in this situation so he took it. "You had a dream, yes?" He said, taking the other man's arm lightly in his hands, rubbing his thumb over the sensitive area on the skin. He saw John shudder and try to pull his arm back but he held firm. "I need you to tell me exactly what happened."

"It was just a dream, Sherlock, what does it matter?"

"It matters because it wasn't just a dream. It was a nightmare. Something bit you in that dream and it's venom is coursing through your body right now. Your vision is impaired, you are running a high fever, you're weak and your slurring your words." He paused and lowered his voice. "It's killing you and I can't treat it if I don't know caused it."

In the short time he'd known Sherlock, he'd never heard the warlock's voice take that tone. Part anger, part worry… and extremely distressing. John tried to recall what he had seen in as much detail as possible, finding it a lot harder than expected. All he really remembered was running. He felt Sherlock drop his arm and mutter something about being right back. He heard him go to the kitchen and start rummaging around in cabinets, looking for who knows what.

It seemed like ages but finally Sherlock came back with a cup of hot tea and helped John into a sitting position. "You need to drink this. The whole thing."

"I'm not sure tea is going to do much to help-"

"This is the only thing that's going to help you right now so shut up and drink it before its too late.

John carefully raised the cup to his lips, finding it took every once of his strength to do so. "This tastes terrible. You are never making me tea again. What is even in it?"

He heard Sherlock sigh and could only imagine the snide comment he was biting back. "If you knew you wouldn't drink it, but you need to so finish it and go to sleep. I'll tell you when you're better."

John was the doctor - he had no idea why he wasn't trying to help himself or calling for an ambulance. He trusted Sherlock, no idea why. Sure, he'd been bound to protect his family but even if he hadn't John probably would have followed him across London hunting down bad guys. He slowly drank the rest of his tea and lay back down, finding it impossible to keep his eyes open.

\-----

When he awoke, he found himself asleep on the couch. The diary was open on the table in front of him and he realized he must have fallen asleep while reading it. He sat up and looked around. The sun was out and was fairly high in the sky. Damn. How long had he been asleep?

"Sherlock?" He called, rubbing the last bit of sleep from his eyes and trying to get his brain moving. He saw the warlock sitting on the floor near the end of the couch. His eyes were closed but John didn't think he was asleep. There was more cause for concern - Sherlock had horns. They were black and about eight inches long, jetting back from his forehead like a Springbok's would. Surely he was still dreaming, he couldn't have missed this.

"Oh good, you're awake. How are you feeling?" Sherlock said, his eyes snapping open just as John got up to stumble into the kitchen to make himself some tea. The warlock's eyes were different too… were they all black? He must be dreaming. Still drunk was another option but to his knowledge he hadn't been down to the pub last night and he hadn't woken up still drunk in a very, very long time.

"Uh good, good. What happened last night?" He asked, trying to keep his back to the man on the living room floor while he made his tea, hoping that if he ignored it, when he looked back, everything would be back to normal - no horns, no black eyes.

"You were bitten by a low level demon in your dream. Its venom made you very ill. I apologize I was not able to get there before it attacked you. Your dreams are somewhere I can't go. Whoever sent it, knew that. I hope your not feeling any ill effects from either the venom or the cure."

John swore, nearly dropping the mug he had in his hands. This man moved like a cat, he hadn't heard him come into the kitchen. The doctor finished pouring himself his tea, completely ignoring Sherlock, before turning around slowly and taking a deep breath. Yes, the horns were still there. Yes, his eyes were still solid black. What the hell was going on.

"So." He said, after a moment, clearing his throat in an attempt to gather his thoughts (as few as they were at this point in time) before he spoke again. "Horns?"

"Yes, Brilliant deduction, Doctor. You're genius is staggering."

John brought his free hand up to rub his eyes. He could just feel a migraine coming on. "You didn't have those before."

"I've always had them, you've just been unable to see them. Mycroft's doing, most likely. Nightmares are usually peaceful creatures, don't really attack like that unless given an order to. Mycroft may not be a full demon, but he's still got pull. If he ordered them to, they would. The venom from the bite you received last night is what has given you the ability to see things for what they really are. You've been touched by the underworld, so to speak." They had found their way back to the chairs in the living room by this point, and it took every ounce of John's strength to try to slow his mind down to even begin to process what Sherlock was saying.

"So wait, you're BROTHER went and had me attacked by monsters - "

"Demons."

"DEMONS, because I couldn't see that you had horns."

"To put it simply, yes. Though if you couldn't see through the illusions around me, then you certainly wouldn't be able to see through the ones around full-fledged demons. I am only a halfling, remember that. I may have power but there are things out there that would even best me. Mycroft's...method, may have been a bit off, but he did it in your best interest."

"Interest or not - your brother is a cock."

Sherlock smiled a bit from what was quickly becoming his usual spot on the floor by the end of the couch and opened his mouth the reply but a voice from downstairs interrupted him.

"John! There are some men here to see you - they have boxes with them, say they've got a delivery." The footsteps coming up the stairs were slow and steady, not the men with the delivery, but his older land lady. He quickly jumped up from his seat and grabbed the scarf from its place by the door and tossed it at Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson already thought he was gay, there was absolutely no reason to give her more reason to think that by letting her see a very attractive man sitting on his floor with a collar around his neck. 

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Let them up." He said, as she reached the top of the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson - this is Sherlock, he's an old family friend. He'll be staying with me for a while if that's alright."

"Oh, of course, dear. It'll be nice having someone else around. Oh, I better go back downstairs and make sure those men don't break anything. They didn't look the most graceful on their feet if you ask me."

"Mycroft's men. " Sherlock said as the thunk of heavy boots began making their way up the stairs. "No doubt bringing over the things he promised." John was a soldier - a very cautious soldier at that. He didn't seem the type to let strange men with deliveries into his flat without knowing who they were so he had no doubt already figured it out. Still, Sherlock had not spent much time with him and while he seemed a more intelligent man than his previous owners, he couldn't be sure. Better to be sure than fighting off a horde of shifters.

John watched as box after box was brought up the stairs and set just inside the door. After what seemed like ages (but was in reality just under half an hour) the men bid him farewell and took their leave. John closed to the door to the flat and turned towards the boxes with a sigh. What the hell was all this stuff and what was he supposed to do with it? "Sherlock, do you have any idea -" He was cut off as the man suddenly appeared at his side and started to pick through the boxes.

"Boring. Boring. Dull," he muttered, throwing aside what looked to be decently expensive garments, antique looking books and jars of who-knows-what. John stood back and let the warlock go through the stuff since, as Mycroft promised, it was for him. Sherlock noticed it was all tokens and mementos of the past 400 years, clothing, various items to fight both demon and human nasties alike. It was all just dreadfully boring and to be expected. He had hoped there would be something in there to peak his interest.

"Well?" John asked, when the horned man had stopped throwing stuff onto the floor and had finally taken a step back.

"Just exactly what he promised," Sherlock said quickly, the disappointment apparent in his voice.

"I suppose we better start finding a place for all this then. Mrs. Hudson would have my head if we just left the boxes here like this." He started gathering clothing that had been tossed aside off the floor when a thought crossed his mind. It was a question that he desperately needed the answer to right now. "Wait a minute - your brother had me attacked by some venomous demons."

"Yes, John. I thought we had already established that." Sherlock was only half listening to him, as he vaguely flipped through pages of a book that looked to be at least 100 years older than John.

"How could he have been sure I would have survived?"

Sherlock sighed and turned his attention back to his Master. "Because he knew I would be able to give you an antidote."

"The tea?"

"No, John, the cake. Of course the tea. What else would it be?" Sherlock snapped, his patience wearing thin.

"What was in that anyway? It tasted terrible, certainly wasn't something I bought."

Finally. "Now you're asking the right questions." Sherlock responded, putting the book down and moving next to John, bending his head slightly so the Doctor could get a good look at the tip of his horns. "Powdered warlock horn is basically a cure all. It counteracted the venom. Mycroft knows that and knew that a bite like that would open your second sight but would be easily fixed."

John snorted and shook his head, an angry grin spreading across his face. "And what would have happened had you not found me in time? Hmm?"

Sherlock sighed, getting very frustrated at the pointless questions. "That would not have happened." He watched as his Master's fist clenched and unclenched, obviously trying to keep his composure as he was slowly falling apart inside. A lot had been thrown on him in the last 48 hours. Honestly, the Warlock was surprised that he'd held it together this long. Most humans wouldn't even have lasted twelve hours with news of another world, a supernatural world, that they were most definitely a part of thrust upon them. It must have been his army training - keeping him calm in tense situations.

"Look, you have questions. More questions. Ask them. We will deal with the boxes later. I will answer anything you ask."

"Will you be an asshole about it?"

"I make no promises." They made their way back into the living room, taking what was quickly becoming their normal spots - John in his chair, Sherlock on the floor in front of the other. They sat in silence for a few moments while John's brain tried to process all the answers he suddenly found himself needing. When his mouth opened, none of them came out.

"Start from the beginning."

"The journal -"

"I know. And there's more that I haven't finished but I want to hear it from you. Your story, your knowledge… I have a feeling that's going to be a lot different than what my ancestors have decided to tell."


	5. Yesterday is History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Story time and a knock at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd or brit picked. 
> 
> Sorry this chapter took forever and is so short. I promise we'll get to the fun stuff soon.

_"Yesterday is History,_

_'Tis so far away --_

_Yesterday is Poetry --_

_'Tis Philosophy --_

 

_Yesterday is mystery --_

_Where it is Today_

_While we shrewdly speculate_

_Flutter both away"_

_~Emily Dickinson, Yesterday is History_

 

"Mycroft is always true to his word. " Sherlock started, pausing for a moment to make sure this was the direction he wanted to go with this tale. "The day after his meeting with the previous John Watson, he had me delivered to the inn where your great grandfather was staying."

"Delivered?"

"Yes, exactly as it sounds. You can imagine that I was not pleased nor willing to submit to the contract that had been signed without my knowledge. Unfortunately, Mycroft can be quite...convincing. The product of ink meeting paper in this instance is the collar," Sherlock paused to slip two fingers underneath the leather band around his neck and give a gentle tug. "As long as he could get it on me and get me to my master, I was then bound to fulfill the contract. Unfortunately, at that time I was frequently intoxicated so that was a fairly easy feat. I vaguely remember arguing with him but I must have passed out from either the alcohol or something he did because when I woke up, I was in the barn of the inn - "

"Wait just a minute. Your brother put that thing on you?" John demanded, getting out of his chair and moving to inspect the collar. "So if I take it off, does that void the contract? Christ, I knew your brother was an ass but this takes it to a whole new level."

"If only it were that easy. There is...magic, in the buckle. It will only allow it to be taken off once my job is complete. In this case, once the war in hell is over and the demons top side have been taken care of. Now please, let me finish." He sighed and steepled his fingers under his chin, closing his eyes before he continued.

"Mycroft dropped me off in the stable as not to cause a scene in the inn. I was heavily bound because he knew that I would continue to try to escape until my first order was given. Once your great grandfather woke up, he took him out to see me and he was instructed to order me to protect and obey. Once the contract had fully taken hold, Mycroft reminded your great grandfather of his duty and left. His presence was no longer needed and he hated getting his hands dirty."

"My first master was…" The warlock paused, carefully choosing the next word carefully. How would he describe John Henry Watson? He wasn't cruel like some of the others, he allowed him more freedom than he had had in the last few years. If it hadn't been for his ability to see past the illusions demons could put up around them, he would have been just...average. "He was not a bad man. He took the job we were tasked with seriously. I was allowed my freedom as long as I stayed close, followed orders and kept him and his family safe. And I did all that."

He noticed how intently John was listening to his story and took a few seconds to read him. He was intrigued, yes, but worried at the same time. He had trusted and cared for Sherlock very quickly. He was a doctor - caring was part of his nature. John may not have seen first hand how his father had treated Sherlock but he had a few ideas. He also probably knew that others had been much, much worse. 400 years was a very long time and a lot can happen in a few centuries.

"I do hope you don't want me to go through every single moment of 400 years. That would get tedious quickly and we would be here until you grow old."

"But not you."

"Oh no. My kind don't age. You're short human lives aren't even a fraction of mine."

That left John speechless and he stared at the man across from him for a few seconds before he ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I guess, just give me the cliff notes version."

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes once more. "The first few took the job with seriously. We took care of the demons that began to get more and more frequent. However, there seemed to be no end in sight. The demons kept coming, the war had barely just even started. Demons are just as immortal as warlocks - it's their blood that runs through our veins, after all. Things that either of us do tend to be long, arduous processes."

"But something changed. When did you become…" John's voice trailed off and he winced, already regretting asking the question.

"A slave?" Sherlock offered, glancing at his master curiously. "A pet?" He tried again and watched as John's expression got darker. "I've always been a slave, I suppose, since the contract took effect. I wear a collar, I follow orders… once you realize that, pet isn't a long way off. That came about…200 years ago.  One of your relatives was not so kind. He was a sportsman through and through. He kept and bred hunting hounds. That was how he lived his life - for the thrill of the chase. Hunting demons was just another game to him and I was just another hound."

Sherlock closed his eyes and watched his memories of the man play before his eyes. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want. I know it's probably hard…"

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock spat, even though he had to agree with the Doctor. It was hard. He wouldn't ever admit it lest he ruin his icy exterior but he was a very old, intelligent and powerful being and being treated like an animal had been dark times for him.

"I was not allowed in the house. I was not allowed on furniture. I slept with the dogs in the stable. I ate with them and when we were out looking for demons, he kept me on a chain." Sherlock sighed and opened his eyes. He purposefully kept his attention off of John. He didn't want to see the pity he knew was going to be in the man's eyes. "After him, the actual hunting of demons got few and far between and my status  never really improved."

He waited for the blond man to say something along the lines of 'Oh, I'm so sorry. Poor Sherlock' but it never came. Instead, he heard totally unexpected words leave John's mouth.

"I order you to ignore any previous order regarding staying off the furniture. You are free to use what you want, how you want it." There was a pause and after a second he added "Christ, Sherlock, you aren't a dog. You may not be...human, but you aren't an animal. You should have said something."

Sherlock glanced at his master and tentatively pushed himself off the floor. He hovered over the chair for a moment before slowly taking a seat - only the second time he had been able to sit on furniture in close to 200 years. It felt...strange. "There's a lot I can't say John but in time, you'll learn."

 -----

Over the next two weeks, he and Sherlock gradually settled into a routine. They'd start the day with tea and reading the paper, then John would thumb through the books Mycroft had brought over and the journal, slipping in a question to Sherlock every now and then. The warlock seemed to be engrossed in microscopes and other lab equipment that he must have conjured (John hadn't seen it in the boxes but he hadn't been looking too hard) doing God knows what.

A knock at the door pulled them both out of their heads and they glanced at each other - they weren't expecting any company and Mrs. Hudson was at her sister's for the weekend. Slowly John stood and pulled his pistol from his desk drawer, taking quiet, cautious steps through the hall and down the stairs with Sherlock on his heels. He glanced through the peephole to find himself staring at a man who couldn't be much older than him, though greying, holding up a Scotlard Yard badge. Christ, what now.

Tucking the gun into his waistband, he waved briefly at Sherlock to let the man know they didn't have to worry. "How can I help you, officer?" He asked, as he opened the door. Sherlock made an exasperated sound behind him and stomped up the stairs like a petulant 3 year old.

"Morning, Dr. Watson. I'm DI Greg Lestrade - I was given your address by Mycroft Holmes who told me that should something 'out of our jurisdiction' turn up, to come see you two and you'll take care of it. This one's a bit over my head and my hands are, figuratively, tied but I've 4 suicides that really don't look like suicides that need to be dealt with, if you know what I mean."

John blinked, his mind trying to process everything that was just said to him. It seemed like  DI Lestrade knew about, well… Sherlock and those like him but he could know nothing. He said Mycroft had sent him but really, what did that mean? "Sorry...what?"

The man checked his watch and sighed. "I've really got to be going, but here's my card. I'd like you two to give me a call later today and I can run you through the details." With that, he turned and nearly jogged down the sidewalk towards the end of the road. John stared at the card blindly before  ascending the stairs, trying to make sense of the entire conversation so he could relay it to his flatmate.

"Well?" Sherlock said, fiddling with the strings of a violin that must have come from one of the many boxes that still littered the kitchen. "What did the angel have to say?" He seemed disinterested but John was quickly learning that was more the norm for Sherlock than manners, interest or attention was.

What? Now that he hadn't expected. He thought that maybe the detective knew something but not that he was one of...well, them. Sherlock had horns and black eyes that peoved, to those who could see it, that he was different. Lestrade looked just like a normal bloke."Angel? You mean that man is an angel?"

"No, John, don't be stupid. Of course he's not an angel. He's a half angel - unfortunately, the boring half of an angel."

The doctor collapsed in his chair, skimming over the business card for what seemed like the millionth time already, while a warlock was perched on the back of the chair across from him tuning a violin. The reality of his new life had just hit him like a brick to the face and he wasn't sure what he thought about it. Sure, he'd been unsure but part of him was always a little excited at the prospect of something new and dangerous...he just wasn't sure if his army training was enough to let him face demons and monsters while he fought to keep Earth safe from a war in Hell.

No, he was almost positive that his training had not prepared him for that.


End file.
